At last Phil returned to the boulder cottage where he found Mrs. Fabian and Kathleen in the wind-break. The latter was working at the table, sorting the moss specimens for her slides.
She looked up at him now with a new realization of his powers.
"Well, you said this morning to-day would finish the work," said Mrs. Fabian, closing her novel on her finger for a mark. "Are you through?"
"As nearly as I ever shall be," he replied, throwing himself into a chair near Kathleen's table and regarding her deft fingers at their work.
"Well, I'm glad," said Mrs. Fabian, "for we've seen nothing of you. I like the way you visit us."
He looked at her quickly to see if there were feeling behind the accusation.
"Now, you'll have to stay on a week when you are not so preoccupied."
"Not if he doesn't wish to, mother," said Kathleen, going on with her work. Her cheeks were still flushed from the warm tramp to the woods; the red glints in her hair shone lustrous.
"It does look like making use of you, doesn't it?" he said impetuously. "But you're so good to me, both of you. To-morrow you'll forgive me, Aunt Isabel, when you see I have a place to work and trouble no one. I do hope it won't rain."
"Oh, no," said Kathleen, handling a tiny bit of moss. "The moon holds the weather."